‘You're not afraid, are you?'

Published: Sunday, April 7, 2013 at 4:30 a.m.

Last Modified: Friday, April 5, 2013 at 11:58 a.m.

History is more than just a series of dates and events. History is the record of real people participating in events that really happened.

From where I am seated, I view a picture of my father in his baseball uniform. The picture was taken 65 years ago.

He is kneeling, his weight resting on his right knee. He is holding a bat, paddle-like, to his side. He is wearing a baseball cap.

My father always wore a baseball cap, at least during those early years. I remember, one time, my sister Pat asked my mother, "Does Daddy always have to wear his baseball cap?"

He had dreamed of making the major leagues. Early in his marriage, he played for a league in Wilmington. When he was sent to West Virginia, he gave up his dream and came home to his wife and growing family. He still played for Ecusta in the Industrial League and the Skylarks, a semi-professional team that existed for a short time. They played their games at the old fair grounds, where East Henderson High School is today. The window of opportunity for the professional athlete is not very big. If he ever had any regrets, he never expressed them.

What makes researching local history difficult is connecting emotionally.

I agree with Bronwen Dickey who wrote in Southern Living (September 2010): "Stories keep us open and alive. When you communicate to another person — even a complete stranger — something meaningful that has happened to you, not only do you understand better yourself, but you are also, in some small way, understood."

It takes stories to bring life to history.

In September 2007, at the World War II memorial in the nation's capital, a special wreath was placed at the Atlantic Tower. Near the inscription of the European battles, a wreath was placed in memory of the more than 121 young men from Henderson County who did not return from the war.

One of the names on the wreath was H.B. Drake, who died June 17, 1944, when his bomber was shot down over Europe. Drake was the uncle of Honor Air founder Jeff Miller.

Miller left personal photographs of his parents, Bert and Katherine Drake Miller, along with his late uncle, at the North Carolina column of the memorial.

It is not so much that you understand what I am getting at, but that I understand, that I connect, that I am capable of breathing life into freeze-frame pictures locked in memory — or on pages of a family photo album.

I encountered "The Rotor" at Pacific Ocean Park (California) in 1960.

From the outside, this carnival thrill ride looks like a big wooden barrel. The thrill-seekers line up along the interior wall, arms outstretched. It begins and moves faster and faster until the floor drops from beneath the feet of the riders and the riders are held to the wall by centripetal force.

I would never have wasted good money on such a thing had it not been for my manhood coming into question. The girl I was with kept saying, "You're not afraid, are you?"

"Of course not!" I quickly replied in my best Don Knotts imitation.

I remember I closed my eyes.

I felt the floor leave my feet and experienced a slight drop. My billfold seemed elevated in my back pocket.

I discovered later that the barrel's rotation creates a centripetal force equivalent to almost 3G's. At the end of the ride, it slows down and gravity takes over. The floor returned under my feet. I opened my eyes to see a blur of color and shape.

The future riders of the event watch from an observation deck above as those experiencing the ride appear glued to the wall like insect specimens. "The riders slide down the wall slowly."

History is journey. It is the personal journey each of us takes and how that personal journey intersects with the life journeys of others.

<p>History is more than just a series of dates and events. History is the record of real people participating in events that really happened.</p><p>From where I am seated, I view a picture of my father in his baseball uniform. The picture was taken 65 years ago. </p><p>He is kneeling, his weight resting on his right knee. He is holding a bat, paddle-like, to his side. He is wearing a baseball cap. </p><p>My father always wore a baseball cap, at least during those early years. I remember, one time, my sister Pat asked my mother, "Does Daddy always have to wear his baseball cap?" </p><p>He had dreamed of making the major leagues. Early in his marriage, he played for a league in Wilmington. When he was sent to West Virginia, he gave up his dream and came home to his wife and growing family. He still played for Ecusta in the Industrial League and the Skylarks, a semi-professional team that existed for a short time. They played their games at the old fair grounds, where East Henderson High School is today. The window of opportunity for the professional athlete is not very big. If he ever had any regrets, he never expressed them. </p><p>What makes researching local history difficult is connecting emotionally.</p><p>I agree with Bronwen Dickey who wrote in Southern Living (September 2010): "Stories keep us open and alive. When you communicate to another person — even a complete stranger — something meaningful that has happened to you, not only do you understand better yourself, but you are also, in some small way, understood."</p><p>It takes stories to bring life to history.</p><p>In September 2007, at the World War II memorial in the nation's capital, a special wreath was placed at the Atlantic Tower. Near the inscription of the European battles, a wreath was placed in memory of the more than 121 young men from Henderson County who did not return from the war.</p><p>One of the names on the wreath was H.B. Drake, who died June 17, 1944, when his bomber was shot down over Europe. Drake was the uncle of Honor Air founder Jeff Miller. </p><p>Miller left personal photographs of his parents, Bert and Katherine Drake Miller, along with his late uncle, at the North Carolina column of the memorial.</p><p>It is not so much that you understand what I am getting at, but that I understand, that I connect, that I am capable of breathing life into freeze-frame pictures locked in memory — or on pages of a family photo album.</p><p>I encountered "The Rotor" at Pacific Ocean Park (California) in 1960.</p><p>From the outside, this carnival thrill ride looks like a big wooden barrel. The thrill-seekers line up along the interior wall, arms outstretched. It begins and moves faster and faster until the floor drops from beneath the feet of the riders and the riders are held to the wall by centripetal force.</p><p>I would never have wasted good money on such a thing had it not been for my manhood coming into question. The girl I was with kept saying, "You're not afraid, are you?" </p><p>"Of course not!" I quickly replied in my best Don Knotts imitation.</p><p>I remember I closed my eyes. </p><p>I felt the floor leave my feet and experienced a slight drop. My billfold seemed elevated in my back pocket. </p><p>I discovered later that the barrel's rotation creates a centripetal force equivalent to almost 3G's. At the end of the ride, it slows down and gravity takes over. The floor returned under my feet. I opened my eyes to see a blur of color and shape. </p><p>The future riders of the event watch from an observation deck above as those experiencing the ride appear glued to the wall like insect specimens. "The riders slide down the wall slowly."</p><p>History is journey. It is the personal journey each of us takes and how that personal journey intersects with the life journeys of others. </p><p>There are many interesting side roads that beg to be traveled. </p><p>Personal stories easily distract me from a purely academic approach to research.</p><p>I wonder what journey that girl took?</p>